


Is This a Zombie Which I See Before Me?

by Isagel



Category: Slings & Arrows
Genre: Gen, Humor, M/M, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:24:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isagel/pseuds/Isagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking back, it had to be considered that perhaps what came to be known as The Great Massacre at The Swan would not have been such an extensive, well, <i>massacre</i>, if the viral outbreak of living death had not coincided with Darren Nichols's production of <i>A Midsummer Night's Dream</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is This a Zombie Which I See Before Me?

Looking back, it had to be considered that perhaps what came to be known as The Great Massacre at The Swan would not have been such an extensive, well, _massacre_ , if the viral outbreak of living death had not coincided with Darren Nichols's production of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. Certainly one must at least assume that more people would have opted to run for their lives instead of stopping in the backstage hallway to commiserate with what, at a closer inspection, turned out to be not Fairy #3 in full costume and make-up, but, rather, a zombie.

In fact, even during the Massacre itself, remarks were reportedly made to this effect.

 

* * *

 

"I thought he was one of your extras!" Geoffrey snapped. "I should have known from the smell, but there was a definite _odour_ coming from your rehearsal room last week, and I didn't want to make the poor bastard's life harder by mentioning it, and then he growled and tried to _bite_ me!"

As if on cue, the creature growled again - if "growl" was indeed the appropriate word for its monotonous, guttural cries; they reminded Darren quite strongly of a remarkable one-man performance of Strindberg's _A Dream Play_ that he had once seen in Düsseldorf - and lunged for them with outstretched hands. Geoffrey made a bold sweep with his rapier, trying to keep the thing at bay. Despite the circumstances (or possibly because of them - a man could hardly be held accountable for the tricks played on his higher brain-functions by the adrenaline rush inevitably associated with a life-or-death situation), Darren couldn't help but notice how preposterously dashing he looked, sword in hand, sweat-dampened curls falling messily over his handsome brow. Geoffrey always had been annoyingly adept at stage combat.

It was a great shame that he insisted on being such a... _small_ director.

"If your narrow Stanislavskian mind were able to absorb anything I told you," Darren pointed out, backing away from the zombie as it kept approaching, unheeding of Geoffrey's efforts, "you would have been aware that although the rotting flesh motif revealed certain rarely-heard truths hidden at the heart of the play, it was keeping me from exploring the larger statements Shakespeare is making about the socio-cultural structures that still dominate our heteronormative Western society today. And you would have been aware that my fairies are now dressed in deconstructed orange jumpsuits and wearing headpieces of braided iron chains to symbolize the oppression of alternative..."

There was another drawn-out, Strindbergesque growl directly behind them, making Darren jump and whirl around, his long scarf whipping through the air with what he liked to imagine as a certain dramatic flair appropriate to the gravity of the moment.

"Or in other words," he said, trying to keep the rising panic out of his voice as Geoffrey's retreating back bumped up against his, "if you had bothered to put in an appearance at my dress rehearsal, you would know that my fairies currently look like _that_." He waved his own prop-sword in the direction of the grotesque apparition shuffling around the corner towards them with a rhythmic clinking of chains. "Although last I checked, most of them still had both their arms, and their faces weren't quite so splattered with blood. It's not a bad aesthetic, though. Quite poignant, in its way. Perhaps I could talk to costuming about..."

" _Darren_ ," Geoffrey cut in. His back was pressing hard against Darren's, broad and firm and oddly steadying. Darren leaned into it, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, trying to breathe. There really was a smell. The grip of the rapier felt slippery in his hand. "Darren," Geoffrey said again, the annoyance gone from his voice now, leaving something pained and serious. "This really is happening, isn't it?"

There was a tight, sudden ache in Darren's chest, a flower of sadness bursting open.

In front of him, the zombie was moving steadily closer, teeth bared, paying no attention to the dull tip of his rapier as it made contact with its body. Somehow, the sight of it was less unsettling than the tone of Geoffrey's question, the way he asked like a person not sure of the answer.

"Much as I'm aware that your grip on reality is tenuous at best," Darren said, "and much as I agree that the two of us fighting side by side is something far more likely to occur in a madman's fevered imagination than in actual life, I'm afraid you aren't hallucinating. Implausible as it would seem, this episode does appear to be objectively taking place. In as far as the existence of objective experience can be argued as a defensible philosophical postulate in a post-Heisenberg world, of course."

Geoffrey made a noise like a laugh, humourless and close to the hysteria Darren could feel welling up inside himself.

"Of course," he said. "You know, that really shouldn't be reassuring, but it is. It truly is."

"I'm so pleased _someone_ is reassured," Darren said, making an attempt at his usual razor-sharp sarcasm, which was not easy, given that his rapier was being steadily bent into a more and more circle-like shape as the zombie pushed closer, and considering that he felt peculiarly moved by Geoffrey's admission, "because _I'm_ most certainly _not_. It's beneath my artistic dignity-" or, no, he could be magnanimous at a time like this "-beneath _both_ our artistic dignity, to perish in this...cheap horror movie pastiche." He poked at the zombie with his blade, a challenge to the affront of its existence. "I will not stand for it."

This time, senselessly, Geoffrey's huff of laughter had more of genuine amusement in it. Darren would never understand him.

"I thought horror movies were all the rage with you postmodernists," he said.

"Oh, please," Darren said, turning his head to glance at Geoffrey over his shoulder in exasperation. "If you even mention the word _Scream_..."

There was not a scream, but a very loud _thwack_ , followed by a groan (Not so much Strindberg as Sartre - the 1996 Warsaw production of _Huis Clos_ , to be precise, the one staged on an off-ramp to the E77 highway.) and a prodigious thud. When Darren looked back in the direction of his fairy zombie, it was lying motionless on the floor. Over it, Nahum was standing with a broom raised in his capable hands.

"You have to hit them over the head," he said, eyeing Darren's rapier sceptically. "That is the only effective way of stopping them."

Darren blinked at him. He felt uncharacteristically slow.

"You have a lot of experience in fighting zombies, then?" he asked.

"No," Nahum said, shrugging. "But back in Nigeria, when the government forces came to our theatre to arrest us for speaking out against the corrupt regime through our productions, that is how we saved ourselves. It was a highly effective method against the unthinking tools of oppression, as well, although the respite was but brief."

"Huh," Darren said. "There should be some profound metaphor in that, but at the moment is seems to elude me."

"I hope it's not also eluding you that if this zombie I'm seeing before me is not a hallucination, it sure as hell isn't metaphorical," Geoffrey put in.

Oh. Right.

Darren turned, rapier held high. Now he knew where to aim. Every structure always did rot from the head. It made perfect sense, really.

Still, he might let Nahum take point on this. After all, it could hardly be said that Darren Nichols needed the glory.


End file.
